Pasta Tattoos
by HappySpoon
Summary: Italy gets fed up with always getting things wrong and being scolded by Germany so runs away. He is then taught the art of rebellion by the pirate king of punk - England! Rated for language and France being France.
1. A Meeting Gone Wrong

Chapter One - A Meeting Gone Wrong

"Ve...ve...ve...ve..." The world renown sounds of a sleeping Italian filled the meeting room, adding a gentle rhythm to the overwhelming noise of bickering nations. Said Italian was sprawled over the table, his head resting lightly on folded arms while his body rose and fell with the his gentle breathing. All around him the nations bickered.

On the other side of the table France and England were currently trying to throttle one another while America laughed loudly at their antics. Beside Italy, Japan sat primly, his back straight and his hands in his lap as he calmly and with measured tones, agreed with everything America said or did. Next to Japan, China was face palming, shaking his head in woe at the antics of the Westerners whilst under the table he periodically sold sweets to America for extortionate prices. Next to China sat Russia who was smiling happily, completely content as he joyfully hugged his large, metal pipe. There was a gap between Russia and America...why was there an empty chair that said "eh?" Spooky. Next to Italy on the other side sat Germany, who looked like he was undecided between popping a vein, downing a beer or just giving up and going home to lie down in a darkened room. Eventually, he seemed to decide on the first.

"Enough!" He bellowed, his voice carrying across the room, "Sit down and shut up the lot of you!" He bent down to Italy and cuffed him roughly around the ear, startling the Italian into waking, "Italy its your turn to present and then we can break for lunch." He sighed, sitting down and trying to ignore how everyone perked up at the word lunch.

"As long as England is not cooking then it shall be wonderful." One punched Frenchman later and the room finally settled.

Italy stood up and went over to the front, "Ve-ciao everyone! Germany said I wasn't allowed to present on pasta even though pasta is amazing. I like pasta!" Italy beamed a smile at the group who collectively did not give the surprised reaction at his proclamation that he was looking for. Undeterred, he continued, "Pasta is delicious and I'm going to have some for lunch. But we are here to talk about global warming and apparently that's not solved by pasta which is silly because everything is solved by pasta." Italy frowned at this metaphysical conundrum. "Ve...I suggest we make a giant white flag and put it on the ground and surrender and retreat from global warming." Proud, the Italian nodded, happy with his speech and not noticing the sea of blank faces in front of him.

"You can't surrender to global warming! What you need is a giant hero to go and fight global warming." No prizes for guessing which American said that.

"I agree with America." Japan nodded, trying to pretend he had never uttered those words before.

"Aiyaa, form your own opinions! Giant white flags and heroes. Whatever nonsense is next aru?" China paused for a moment before adding, "If either project goes ahead allow me to manufacture it at a cut price."

"Global warming become one with Mother Russia da?"

Awkward silence.

"Italy's idea might work as the white of the flag would reflect the suns rays in a similar way to the polar ice caps and would cool the global temperature down eh." The chair spoke.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Canada..." The chair sighed.

"Is it me or is this place spooky?" America jumped to his feet and looked around in fear, "Not that I'm scared I just need to know to activate my hero powers." He nervously hid behind France who only slightly tried to molest him - really the nation of love was quite restrained.

"America stop being a twat and sit down." England said, before daintily sipping his tea.

"What's a twat? Can you eat it?" America asked, ghosts forgotten.

England sighed and seemed to count to ten in his head before replying, "You're a twat and no you can't eat it." He pointed to America's chair with an impatient expression and eventually the other complied and took a seat.

"If we can return to the topic at hand..." Germany started, desperate for some focus.

"Can we make climate change some delicious pasta?" Asked Italy, his expression hopeful as he looked at Germany, awaiting approval for his ideas from his friend.

"No Italy...you can't make climate change some pasta and a giant white flag won't stop climate change either. Now do you have any sensible ideas?" Germany tried to hide his frustration but he felt a pounding headache coming on and was being rather short with the other in his tone of voice.

"Ve...what about introducing climate change to a pretty girl?" Italy bounced enthusiastically on the balls of his feet, excited at the prospect, "It will make climate change happy if it is with a pretty girl! Then it'll stop being angry at us, ve!" He clapped his hands together excitedly. "We can then feed it pasta with the pretty girl and we can have pasta t-"

As the Italian spoke he got more and more excited which meant he bounced more and more, causing him to trip over his untied shoelaces. This caused an unfortunate chain reaction. Italy tripped and fell onto Japan who flung his arm up instinctively, in the process he let go of the pen he was using to diligently make notes on the meeting. The pen went sailing into the air and landed on the table in front of Russia who was startled and smashed down his lead pipe into the table in front of him. Splinters went flying in all directions but most landed on Canada who dropped his polar bear in surprise. The polar bear then wondered off and bit England in the foot which caused England to punch France and the two started bickering, wringing each other's necks once more. The two rolled around and cannoned into America who then joined in their fight by picking up the remnants of the table and lobbing it at them. The two were knocked backwards (still squabbling) and cannoned into Germany who was trying to pick Italy up off the floor.

China sat unscathed and mumbled something about idiots.

France flung his arms around Germany and England, "Bonjour mes amis!" He spoke flirtatiously, winking at England.

"Get off me you bloody wanker!" England punched France...a recurring theme of the meeting, ironically more so than the topic of the meeting.

Germany shoved France and England off him before looking around at the carnage, his gaze resting on the cause of all this chaos - Italy. He grabbed the culprit by the ear and dragged him off out of the meeting room, his face red with anger. Tossing the culprit up the wall he paused to take a few deep breaths, ignoring as Italy got his white flag out and started waving it.

"Ve...ve...ve I'm sorry Germany! I surrender! Don't take away my pasta! I'm sorry!" The Italian whimpered unhappily.

"How many times have I told you to tie your shoelaces properly? You need to take the meetings seriously as well, honestly these things are important. You're a bad influence on the others and cause chaos and you were asleep half the meeting as well!" Germany sounded pretty cross, despite his best attempts to be patient. "Honestly Italy I do so much for you the least you could do is try and help the meetings go smoothly. Just try and prepare more and stay awake, I will help you prepare but you need to start behaving properly. I'm going to have to buy a new table now and stay late to clean up." Absently, he ran a hand through this hair before stepping back, the stressed man clearly fed up.

Italy flinched under the scolding of the other, his bottom lip wobbled and his white flag drooped sadly. A few tears streamed down his face as he replied, "I'm sorry I won't ever be good enough for you." Turning, he ran before the other had a chance to catch him and disappeared down the corridors, leaving Germany alone.

Both were unaware that they were being watched...

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, please review as I appreciate the feedback.**

 **I do not own Hetalia**


	2. Grand Plans

Chapter Two - Grand Plans

Italy hid away from the rest of the world, locking himself in his house and seeking solace in the form of his brother Romano (the nation representing Southern Italy), a kitten called Tomato and of course, a large bowl of pasta. Tomato sat on the table, greedily lapped up some milk from a saucer, pausing only to mew in contentment. Romano was seated opposite his brother and was eating a ripe, juicy tomato (not the cat) and scowling as Italy rambled between mouthfuls of pasta.

"Ve-and then he said that I couldn't tie my shoelaces properly! But before he used to tie my shoelaces for me and now I don't know how and if I asked Japan to tie my shoelaces then he would think I was arranging a marriage with him like he did when I hugged him that time."

"Damn potato bastard...I swear I will shit him up the bastard!" Romano grumbled as he finished his tomato and picked up Tomato who had also finished his milk.

"And then he told me off for having a nap but I was tired because it was ages since breakfast and I needed a sleep because I didn't have enough energy because I hadn't had enough pasta. And I also had to retreat because I saw England and he had scones and that took loads of energy!" Italy finished his pasta and put the bowl aside, looking slightly helpless. "I don't know how to please my own best friend ve. He made a pinky promise that he would always help me but he just tends to shout at me these days..." Italy trailed off sadly. "Maybe if I make him pasta he will be my friend again?"

Romano was about to launch into a satisfying tirade of Germany hatred when to both their surprise the doorbell rang. They both looked at each other for a moment of hesitation before Italy jumped to his feet and ram to the door, hopeful that it was Germany come to make things right. When he opened the door though there was quite a surprise waiting for him. Standing awkwardly with a hint of shyness stood England, holding a small bunch of multicoloured tulips.

"Ve...England what are you doing here?" Italy asked, fingering his white flag just in case of operation quick emergency surrender.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, I hope I am not interrupting anything?" England replied, blushing with his own sense of social awkwardness. His fingers absently played with the tulips in his hand and he stood with his posture even more unnatural straight than normal, as though afraid to let his guard down.

"We were just eating pasta! Would you like to come in?" Italy asked cautiously, his curiosity about the presence of the other overcoming his long standing fear of the island nation. He opened the door wide and watched as the other slowly stepped through, looking around with an awkward expression. Italy led England into the kitchen and pulled up another chair for the nation before resuming his seat opposite Romano. Romano and Tomato were both eyeing England with high levels of curiosity. One mewing and the other swearing under his breath...naturally Tomato needed to wash his mouth out with soap.

Taking a deep, nervous breath England spoke, "Italy, I saw what happened between you and Germany earlier. He was very harsh, it was quite uncalled for from him. I bought you some flowers to cheer you up." Gesturing to the tulips, he gave them both a warm smile as he held the flowers out to Italy. The Italian took them and sniffed them before grinning in return.

"Ve-thank you England!" He looked quite touched by the gesture and even Romano looked relatively pleased by the situation (aka. Romano was not scowling). Italy stood up and found a vase for the flowers, trimmed their stems and placed them in water, arranging them neatly before setting them on the windowsill so as to catch the warm, Italian sun.

"You're welcome! Bloody Kraut, if he is going to tell anyone off he should tell France or America off, they disturb the peace in those meetings more than anyone." England failed to mention the fact that he was also one of the key perpetrators of general peace disturbance. "Honestly, he has had a stick up his posterior for months. Bloody wanker, taking it out on you. You are a bit of a git at times and frankly the amount of pasta you eat and white flags you produce are beyond comprehension. But I certainly categorise you as mostly harmless." England thought for a moment before nodding importantly. Suddenly he deflated a tad, "Even if you did run away from my scones. I thought that they were particularly delicious - I even bought strawberry jam and clotted cream to go with them." He sighed softly, before looking between his two companions.

Italy could not help but feel a little guilty at his expression, the poor man had obviously tried hard to make his scones as delicious as possible - if only they looked more edible than a mouldy cow pat, then Italy might brave them...alas that they failed to meet such a low criteria. Scones aside, Italy felt strangely at ease with a nation whose stiff upper lip and empire building attitudes had often made him flee in terror. Then again Italy had once fled in terror because Tomato had licked him so he supposed that fleeing in terror from England was at least partially justified compared to a momentary fear of kitten lick. The no nonsense sass combined with the socially awkward shyness made England quite endearing and his defensive words for the Italian were quite sweet.

"Ve...I'm a-sorry I ran from your scones. I'll try not to next time." Italy beamed a radiant smile before it faded slightly as Italy timidly asked, "Do you think Germany hates me now?" He seemed to wilt slightly at the thought, his gaze lowering and his attitude turning unnaturally shy when compared to his usual exuberance.

"Potato Bastard had better not make my brother cry else I'll throw a grenade at him." Romano interjected, failing to remember his inability to tell the difference between throwing a grenade and its pin.

"Germany doesn't hate you, I'm quite sure of that. I dare say, the man is just being a wanker." England gave Italy a kindly, if timid smile, "Try not to worry about it, just give him a bit of time. He will come around I'm sure." The Englishman even went so far as to shyly pat the arm of the Italian, before quickly folding his arms.

"You should teach Potato Bastard a lesson." Romano piped up again, while his fingers busied themselves tickling the kitten on the chin, his expression unusually soft in the face of the adorable black and white Tomato.

"Ve-how do I do that?" Italy asked dejectedly, "I don't want him to hate me more than he already might possibly do."

"I have a spare moustache?" Romano produced a spare false moustache which he held out to his brother with great reverence, treating it with more care than any grenade as he made sure the moustache was kept well out of sight of any unsuspecting faces.

The two startled slightly as England clicked his fingers before reaching for the moustache. A wide smirk soon adorned his lips and a glint appeared in his eye that doubtless would have had both France and Spain running for miles in its day. He looked like he had just discovered the secret to life itself and had just found the highest bidder to sell said secret to. He took a deep breath, looking between the two Italian nations.

"How would you feel about giving Germany something to really stress over? An actual problem of Italian rebellion rather than the make believe issues in his mind. It won't harm anyone and it'll be jolly fun." Turning, he made direct eye contact with Italy who looked both curious and terrified, "What do you say to learning a bit of attitude?"

Romano grinned wickedly, already seeing the potential for the idea and he nodded his encouragement to Italy. The other thought for a long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Ve-count me in!" He exclaimed excitedly, "But what exactly did you have in mind?"

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting.**

 **I do not own Hetalia.**


	3. Finding Italy

Chapter Three - Finding Italy

Germany could not find Italy. He had searched high and low for the Italian, in both usual and unusual places. Starting with the obvious he had hunted around the conference centre, but had only succeeded in finding a very angry cleaner. A few mumbled apologies, a long cleaning session and promises of financial compensation later found the weary German searching the darkening streets around the centre. Still not unduly concerned, the German hopped in his flashy, silver Mercedes and started driving to the Italian's house.

The streets of Rome were bathed in the golden glow of a warm, summer twilight and the stoic German took a few moments to appreciate the ancient city. Gaggles of tourists hogged the pavements as they headed to the cities restaurants and bars, while locals chatted to each other on their way home from work. A couple of market vendors paused their end of day labours to hit on a couple of passing American tourists who fished over their "quaint" European ways. Even the traffic seemed laid back, with the normally jumpy Italian drivers taking their time to go slow, as though everybody wanted to spend as much time in the sun as possible.

Germany could not help but feel soothed by the relaxed, holiday atmosphere that surrounded the city. He had felt so stressed for so long that even a few working days in the sunshine of Rome seemed to ease his frayed nerves. Not that that had helped much during the conference mind. Germany had felt a pounding headache come on within minutes of entering the room and the usual antics of the other nations did nothing remotely useful. All this had been building for so long, that he knew he had been at breaking point from stress for a while. The German felt close to the edge, weighed down by the expectations of the other nations and the even more demanding expectations of his own mind. Simply lowering his self standards sounds simple enough but the German had always wanted what was best both for his people and the people of the wider world. Still, he was worn down and he knew it.

Hence the guilt...

Poor Italy! He knew he should not have shouted at him and he tried to be as patient as he could but one thing led to another and gosh...he needed to make it up to his friend. He knew if he explained how stressed he was it would solve it, and despite the German's natural misgivings for talking about matters close to the heart, he was willing to make an exception. The German had it all planned out, he was going to take Italy out for some pasta and explain how he felt, then he was going to book the axis some time off work. Italy, Germany and Japan were going to go for some time away and switch off, just like old times. They could book a holiday in the sun somewhere remote and just relax. No people, no meetings and best of all no stress headaches.

Smiling slightly to himself, the German pulled over to the Italian's house and got out the car - yes it would all work out just fine...

Germany blinked. Strange that there were no lights on in the house, he was sure that Italy would be home by now. Cautiously, he stepped over to the door and rang the doorbell. Silence. He tried again. Nothing.

The man sighed, he had been convinced that Italy would be home, but not even Romano seemed to be there. He bit his bottom lip, a tinge of concern in his steel blue eyes. What now? He pondered in his head. Maybe the Italian had just gone for some food? Or...what? Tentatively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He had not yet tried to ring the Italian, it had never crossed Germany's mind that he would not be able to find him, but he felt that for his own peace of mind he had better try. Frowning, he bashed in speed dial one and pressed the phone to his ear.

" _I'm sorry but the person you are calling cannot pick up the phone right now, please leave a message after the tone."_

 **BLEEP**

"Er...hello Italy, it's Germany. Could you give me a ring when you get this message? I just wanted to check you're okay." He paused awkwardly for a moment, "Bye." Germany finished lamely. He has never been much good with voice mails.

Germany tried the doorbell once more for good measure before making his way back to the car. He took a few minutes to make sure the Bluetooth was connected to his phone in case the Italian rang, before he set off to drive back to the hotel. By this time, dusk had settled over the city, leaving lights to twinkle like a myriad of stars across the dark streets of Rome. The German concentrated on the road, focussing on driving rather than worrying for his friend.

Before long, he was settled in his hotel room with a bottle of beer and a small plate of sausages, peas and mashed potatoes. Mindlessly, he flicked through his book _How to Talk to Italians_ but no useful advice leapt from the pages. Maybe a better book would be how not to be an overstressed, overworked German who snaps at his best friend. A quick google check quickly dismissed any notions that such a book existed.

After his dinner, he picked up his phone and rang the Italian again, only to receive the same message as before. Trying a different tactic he tried ringing Romano, fully expecting an earful of swearing and potato-bastard hate and instead receiving a voicemail message. Next, he tried Japan and to his joy the man picked up...

"Japan speaking? Who is it?" The comforting tones of Japan had rarely seemed more welcome.

"Ah...Japan, it's Germany. I was just wondering if you had seen Italy at all since the meeting?"

"Italy? No? I have been watching horror movies with America-san since the end of the meeting." There was a short pause as Japan thought for a moment, "Did he not head home?"

"No." Replied the German, "I looked and he wasn't there, I've tried ringing him and Romano and both their phones went to voice mail. I'm worried, it's not like Italy to disappear like this."

There was another long pause on the other end of the phone, broken only by the sound of America screaming in the background, presumably at the horror movie, although it could just be because burgers are not a common dish in Italy. The sound of rustling, footsteps and a slammed door suggested that Japan had exited the room and gone somewhere private to finish his conversation.

"My apologies Germany-san. Might I make a suggestion?"

"Go on?" Germany stated hopefully, Japan usually had a good head for situations like these.

"Well, the next day of the conference is tomorrow. Italy is unlikely to miss it, even if he is sometimes late. We will give it until mid afternoon tomorrow, then if he still does not turn up we can ask the other nations if they have seen him and then go from there?" The man paused for a moment. "Does that sound fair?"

It was not quite the instant solution that Germany had hoped for but it was a sensible proposition. The German agreed quickly and the two said their goodbyes with a promise that they would ring each other if they heard from the Italian in the meantime. Satisfied enough for now, the German looked over his paperwork for the meeting the next day before getting an early night.

He dreamt of golden beaches, gentle tides and making pasta sandcastles in the sun...

 **A/N: I am sorry for the long wait, I went off writing for a while. The lovely comments people have left have made me enthusiastic about this story again, so thank you for those and for following this. I do plan on finishing it and hopefully updating more regularly from now on. I don't own Hetalia. Sorry this chapter was less lighthearted, the story will pick up again next time.**


	4. Stage One - Dress the Part

Chapter Four – Stage One - Dress the Part

The gaggle of three stepped off the plane at Heathrow airport, collected their bags and made their way to the terminal exit and out into the pouring, miserable British weather.

"Ve...ve...ve why does it always rain in your place, England?" Italy moaned, wrapping his arms around himself as they waited for the taxi to turn up. The little curl on his head wilted a little and his expression was filled with timeless misery.

"It's not raining that badly." Mumbled England, as he glanced up at the night dark, clouded sky. He shrugged slightly and reached into his briefcase for a compact, red and white striped umbrella, which he put up quickly and offered to the two shivering Italians. "Here, this should help. The British are always prepared for all four seasons to come at once." He said with a rueful smile directed at them. Romano snatched up the umbrella and instinctively shifted it to protectively shelter his brother, before squeezing himself in as well. The gesture was missed by Italy, but England's expression softened almost imperceptibly at the sweet motion of brotherly love.

"Thanks Tea Bastard." Despite Romano's brotherly affection, the nation was scowling more than usual, having had to drop Tomato the kitten off with Spain, after swearing him to secrecy about their movements. "Spain can't even look after turtles, let alone kittens." He grumbled to himself in worry, as he has most of the flight over to England. Romano's tough exterior crumbled around his kitten and he had barely had the wee mite out his sight since they picked him up from the breeder three weeks ago.

"Ve...we won't be gone long. I'm sure Tomato will be fine in the meantime!" Italy beamed a smile at his brother.

"Tomato Bastard lost me after five minutes of having me...fish-faced bastard had better not lose Tomato." He grumbled again, starting to wish he had never come on this escapade. He glanced over to the Englishman, standing straight backed in the rain. The real reason Romano had come was not to see his brother turn rebellious, he would doubtless witness the consequences of that at a later stage; but rather to figure out what the Tea Bastard wanted. He had no doubt that there was some sort of ulterior motivation for his behaviour, other than simply being nice. After all, the two Italy's barely knew England and the most contact they had ever had was when they were on opposite sides in the Second World War. It was not as though the Englishman had a lot to gain from doing this, other than perhaps to satisfy his own curiosity, or teach Germany a lesson. So, Romano had come, determined to figure out what was going on behind that stiff upper lip and to make sure it would not hurt his little brother. After all, he knew he was a bit of a useless big brother, and he had often made mistakes in the past; but he always tried his best for little Italy and would never see any harm come to him if it could be avoided. It was why he so strongly disapproved of Germany – the Potato Bastard was far too mean to his brother and Romano strongly disapproved.

The rain continued to pour and England progressively looked more like a drowned rat as time went on. Italy and Romano were both cold and huddled together a little under the brolly to keep warm. Finally, after what seemed like hours (but was in reality about twenty minutes), the black cab turned up and the three hopped into the warm and dry. The taxi took them on a winding route through the dark streets of soggy London. Italy dozed off, resting his head on his brother's shoulder while he slept, snoring faintly. Romano grumbled under his breath but failed to hide the glint of happiness in his brown eyes from his Italy's cute gesture. England simply stared out the window, watching the familiar streets go by with quiet patience.

Sometime later found the three of them wrapped up in warm, hand knitted blankets, snuggled on a squishy old sofa and drinking warming hot chocolate in England's flat. It was a small, cramped, one bedroom flat, but suited the Englishman's purposes when he was in the city - close to the city centre, well connected transport links and near a good pub. He had quickly cleaned his bedroom and made the sheets up for the brothers to share his double bed, stating it was only right the host slept on the sofa. The three had agreed to warm up a bit then get an early night, all of them mildly jet lagged and very worn out from their long day. They sat in a comfortable silence, all of them too worn out and thoughtful to be too worried about awkwardness.

After a while, Italy quietly piped up, "Ve...do you think Germany is okay?" The other two turned their heads to look at his innocent and worried expression.

"Don't you worry about that damned kraut!" Replied England with a warm smile, "It shows you're a good friend if he upsets you and still worries you. No there is no need to fret about him, he reaps what he sows and if he can't handle that then...it's tough titties to him!" England nodded passionately, the effect of his serious demeanour somewhat ruined by the ridiculous phrase.

Italy giggled, "Ve...ve...England your language is funny!" Even Romano managed a smirk as England huffed indignantly.

"You're starting to sound like that bloody American!" He rolled his eyes and finished his drink, "Right, come on your two. Off to bed! We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow." They finished their drinks and the three hurried to bed, falling into exhausted sleep quickly. Italy cuddled up to his big brother sweetly, Romano sprawled like a star fish and England uncomfortably snuggled in the foetal position on the sofa.

 _-Hetalia-_

It was early the next morning and England was up and about already. He had always been something of an early riser and today was no exception. Already he had showered, dressed and was ready and raring to face the day. After the long day yesterday, England decided to start the day with a treat and cooked enough sausage sandwiches, tea and coffee to feed a small army (or two very hungry Italians). Setting aside a sandwich for himself, he loaded a tray with neatly arranged plates, sandwiches, tea, coffee and a single daffodil in a small vase and walked down to his bedroom. He knocked quietly before softly padding into the room and placing the tray on the bedside table. Reaching over, he opened the blue, velvet curtains wide, letting in a stream of warm, golden, early morning light and bathing the two Italian's in a soft summer glow.

"Good morning! Hope you both slept well. I bought you breakfast, there's towels in the bathroom, come through to the living room when you are both ready." England greeted them in a chirpy fashion before he left the room once more to go and enjoy his own breakfast in the quiet comfort of his kitchen.

Romano groaned loudly, sat up, rubbed his eyes childishly and stretched languidly. "Tea Bastard is up way too early." He turned his attention to the tray of food and sniffed it suspiciously, the sausages looked a tad overdone but seemed edible enough. Grabbing a sandwich, he tucked in hastily and blinked in surprise, not bad for the Tea Bastard! Hurriedly, he scoffed the sausage bun, washing it down with a large mug of coffee.

Meanwhile, Italy continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of his surroundings as he contentedly snored. He was roused by a painful elbow in the rib from his unsympathetic brother, "Oi wake up and have your breakfast before it gets cold!"

"Ve...Big Brother that was mean!" Italy moaned as he rubbed his side and sat up slowly. Blinking languidly, he took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. Yawning loudly, he reached over to pick up at sandwich, pausing long enough to glance at his brother and establish that he was not dead from England's cooking. Italy was an idiot but not that much of an idiot to trust the King of Scone's creations. He munched his breakfast, only grimacing faintly. Even gourmet food did not always please the Italian, so poor England did not stand a chance. Still, the Italian appreciated the sweet gesture and could hardly turn down an offer of food when staying in England's house.

After some time, the two emerged into the lounge, both full, clean and raring to go - well Italy had fallen asleep on the sofa while his brother was in the shower but it was close enough. England was waiting for them patiently with a flip chart, on which he had inscribed the words "How to Turn Italy Rebellious". Clearing his throat to wake Italy and gain the attention of the brothers, he drew a neat bullet point.

 _Stage One - Dress the Part_

"So then chaps, let's get this show on the road. It's time I took you both shopping."

 _-Hetalia-_

The intrepid trio found themselves in an alternative clothing shop. The decor was dark, the music was growling and filled with more guitars, drums and noise than tune and the shop assistant had more metal pierced into his face than skin. Or so it seemed to Italy who was frankly terrified of the place and had decided to cling to big (well slightly bigger than Italy anyway), strong, scary England for protection. The Englishman blushed furiously at the contact but had the good grace to not shove the Italian off completely, deciding to pat his shoulder awkwardly instead.

"Ve...England this is scaryyy! This is more scary than you! Or your scones! Englaaaand!" Italy wailed, waving his white flag around as the Englishman sighed slightly, not too perturbed - he had brought up America after all, so this was frankly nothing.

"It's not scary, it's just different. Now come on over here." He gestured to a few clothing rails to the side, before practically dragging the Italian over. Romano trailed behind the pair, reluctantly following them whilst keeping a wary eye on the shop assistant in case he fancied an Italian on scone for breakfast. England took a moment to manoeuvre the Italian so that he stood by the clothing rail with his arms stretched out.

"Ve...ve...ve...what are you doing England?" The bewildered Italian asked.

"Just stay like that old chap." He mumbled whilst routing through the clothes. England began to pull out tops and trousers in Italy's size, most made of leather and black in colour, although some blood red and dark purple made an appearance. Carefully, he laid the clothes over the outstretched arms of the Italian, piling them high with variations on skinny leather trousers and angsty band tops. Absentmindedly, the Englishman hummed along to the metal music, betraying his love of the unusual genre.

"Eh...Tea Bastard is into these tunes?" Asked a confused Romano.

England smirked, "Let's just say I was quite the little punk in the eighties. How do you think I know about this shop?" Snatching up a tight leather jacket he dumped it onto the pile before shoving Italy off into the direction of the changing rooms. "Go try that lot on and come show me with each item." Italy dutifully trotted off as England headed over to look at fingerless leather gloves.

"I had no idea you were like that." Commented Romano as he absently flicked through a few silk dresses with skull and crossbones patterns.

England raised his eyebrow and nodded to the dresses, "I had no idea you were that way inclined." He teased lightly as the Italian jumped away from the dresses.

"Bastard! I'm not my brother..." He looked cross for a moment before they both looked at each other and started giggling in an uncharacteristic fashion, caught up in the strangeness of their unusual situation. How often do you find yourself in an alternative shop, looking to punk up a complete coward with someone who you were at war with and who is an acquaintance at best?

Italy poked his head around the changing room curtain and beamed in confusion at their laughter, before grinning inanely and joining in. Noticing him, the others turned to look at him, taking in the tight black leather jeans, the baggy, loose, black, short sleeved Avenged Sevenfold top and tight black leather jacket. England's eyes widened a little and he trotted over, a gleaming grin on him as he moved to straighten up the Italian a little.

"No slouching, you look damn good in that if I may say so. Show it off!" A nod of approval accompanied his words.

"Ve...this clothing won't be good to make white flags out of!"

"Oh you won't need to retreat with that look dear." A wicked smirk lit up his features. "Besides, the only flags you'll be make for a while are the jolly roger."

"The jolly what?" Romano piped up.

"The jolly roger! You know? Pirate skull and crossbones?" England glanced at Romano meaningfully, "I'm sure if you asked your Spain he would tell you, after all he saw it often enough back in the day."

"Ve...I don't want to be a pirate!" Italy piped up, "I get seasick."

"You won't actually be a pirate, you'll just be taking inspiration from their dress sense." England shoved him back in the changing room, "Now go try on some of those other clothes."

Several outfits later and the three came to the conclusion that leather suited Italy very well, showing off the small man's frame and making him look a lot more intimidating than his usual casual getup. They ended up leaving the shop with several pairs of leather jeans, a tight-fitting leather jacket with silver studs, two pairs of leather, fingerless gloves, various assorted t-shirts and a thick black, leather belt with silver studs. England was pleased with their haul so far and was pleasantly surprised with how well it all seemed to suit Italy, his small, petite frame and unruly hair seeming to lend itself to unusual outfits.

They chatted amicably between themselves, content with their company and seemingly relaxed with each other as they headed off to find a shoe shop. They were just about to head into a Doc Martin's shop when England's phone rang, "Rule Britannia" ringing out to alert the Englishman of his call. He picked up without checking who was on the other end and pressed his phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Bonjour, mon petite lapin! It is France." England pulled a face at the sound of the voice on the other end, grimacing noticeably.

"Really, thanks for telling me, I would never have worked it out from that ridiculous accent of yours."

"You're welcome mes amis, I am only here to serve."

"What do you want wanker?" England scowled, already fed up of the conversation with his long-term rival.

"I was just wondering why you were not at the meeting today? Did you finally get laid?" France spoke suggestively, making a few kissy noises into the phone as the poor Englishman turned bright red.

"Piss off and mind your own business. As it happens I am not well."

"Eat one of your own scones? I can hear a lot of traffic for someone not well."

"Yes, I am going to the doctors." The exasperated Englishman explained.

"And is Italy going with you? He isn't in the meeting either." France asked curiously, although there was a slight edge to his tone as though suggesting he knew more than he was letting on.

"How should I know? I barely know the git. Now will you piss off, I'm nearly there."

"Of course, mon petite, get well soon! I shall be around to your hotel room later to check up on you. Bye bye!"

England scowled and hung up the phone without another word before he turned to the other two, "We need to get a move on, France suspects us and it would not surprise me if Spain blabs soon." The others nodded and they disappeared into the shoe shop with renewed determination.

 **A/N: A bit of a longer chapter this time. What did you guys think? I've really got the writing bug again now so I feel like I'm going to reel them out. Any hints or tips about my writing would be appreciated. Thanks for your continued support. As always, I don't own Hetalia.**


	5. A Quiet Conference

Chapter Five – A Quiet Conference

Germany awoke at five in the morning and could not fall back to sleep, worried as he was for his friend. He tried counting sausages to fall back to sleep. Each sausage had a goofy facial expression and jumped carelessly over a fence.

 _One sausage…two sausage…three sausage…four sausage…_

Instead of falling asleep, Germany only ended up making himself exceptionally hungry and at half five he gave up and got out of bed. Cranky from his lack of sleep, he pottered about his little hotel room, taking time to get ready for the day and making himself a hot, instant coffee from the kettle by his bed. Without realising it, he ended up checking his phone for a good seven times in the course of half an hour – the whereabouts of Italy never far from his mind.

Feeling somewhat stir crazy in part due to being cooped up inside most of the last week, but mostly from Italy related stress; the German decided to go for an early morning run and got changed into light joggers and a tank top. He snuck out of the hotel and ran with a slow gait, gravitating towards a local park he had visited with Italy some years back. As he ran, he recalled the memory to himself. There was the bush that Italy had found and befriended a stray cat, there was the bench they had sat and had a picnic in the sun and there was the path that Italy had fled down on seeing England approaching armed with scones. A bittersweet smile lit up the German's normally stoic face and he picked up his pace a little, trying to focus on the rewarding pain that exercise brings rather than his Italian friend.

There is always something very pleasing about running first thing in the morning, before the sun has fully heated up. Cooling dawn with its bright, gentle rays and soft, wispy mist brings enough light to see by, but enough cool air to not overheat. Gentle dew makes the grass soft beneath one's feet, but not in the slippery way that rain does. The lack of people leaves the streets calm and quiet and means that nobody can see one's rosy cheeks and the sweaty results of pushing oneself. Germany had always thought it was the best time to run and often regretted that Italy was unable to get up early enough in the morning to come join him in his early training.

He stayed out gently jogging for a good hour before wending his way back to his hotel room. Breathlessly, he took time to stretch his aching legs before he cast aside his clothes and went for a long, hot soak in the shower. The German dressed himself in a smart, blue suit, before he packed his briefcase in preparation for the day ahead. It was about half seven by the time he got down to the hotel dining room for breakfast and Germany not only felt famished, he already felt that he had had a long morning, with a pounding headache to go with it. He almost groaned when he spotted a certain loud-mouthed American beckoning him over with one hand whilst wolfing down a burger for breakfast with the other.

"Oi! Germany! Come sit here!" The American called, spraying burger everywhere in an uncouth manner. So far, it seemed that nobody else had come down yet, although not all the nations attending the conference were staying in this hotel. Germany trotted over to dutifully place his suitcase down on the seat next to the American.

"Guten Morgen, America."

"Hey Germany!" The American laughed, although the cause of his mirth was somewhat uncertain to the German, "You should try the breakfast burgers, they sure ain't McDonalds but they ain't half bad."

"I feel the need for something a little lighter, but I will bare in mind your recommendation for the future." Replied Germany tactfully, before he trotted over to the food area. In the end he chose a bowl of mixed fruit and yoghurt, a small bowl of cereal and two slices of buttered toast, along with another large coffee for his breakfast. He carefully carried his tray back to his seat and began quietly eating, his ear being filled with nonsensical prattling from America.

"Are you looking forward to the conference? I sure as hell am. I wonder if they managed to clean up the conference room. Do you think they will have a good buffet? If not, can I go buy burgers? I wonder where Iggy is, I didn't see him last night. Maybe he got drunk and ended up dancing on a table at that stripper club with France again…"

At this point Germany nearly choked on his toast, his cheeks turning something of a tomato red at the American's words.

"Eh?! When did that happen?" Germany exclaimed.

"Last time the conference was in Italy. Surprised your brother didn't tell you, I'm pretty sure Prussia was one of the strippers." America paused to sip his breakfast milkshake, "Think there's a video on YouTube somewhere of it if you want to see."

"Er…no I think I'll pass on that one." The bemused German replied as his thoughts drifted once more to a desert island with no daft nations and their antics.

It was not long before they were joined by France and China, two of the three others staying at the hotel – the third being England. Both grabbed their breakfasts and fell into easy conversation with the American, while Germany remained quiet. France told a somewhat graphic account of his unvirtuous antics with a flirtatious hotel maid from the previous night. China tutted away, America alternated between laughing along and looking confused at the descriptions and Germany tuned them out. He paid just enough attention though to tune into the end of the tale…

"So, then I _BLEEPED_ her in the _BLEEP_ and she was all, Monsieur is so good and then her husband walked in and that's why I have a bruise on my jaw." France raised his chin to show a slight swelling on his right jawline, "I'd have ended up with one either way." He replied to China's tutting and shake of a head, "I was meant to be meeting up for a drink with England but that punk never showed up, so I had to entertain myself in other ways…" He grinned suggestively, before pausing to flash a wink at a nearby waitress who almost swooned.

Germany abruptly furrowed his brow, "Wait, you mean to tell me that neither America or France saw England last night and he isn't here for breakfast this morning. He isn't one to be late for sure." A sinking feeling developed in the German's stomach and he pushed away his second slice of toast, suddenly not hungry any more.

"Aiyaa, he's probably just drunk in his room, aru and if he is dead then I'll sell all his stuff at a cut price." China nodded sagely.

"Germany, you need more love and less worry," France replied with a wink to the German, "Let Big Brother France sooth you. If he hasn't turned up for the conference then I'll give him a ring later."

Germany nodded with a sigh, "Very well then." He stood up abruptly, "I'll head down to the conference centre. See you in a bit." He picked up his briefcase and strode to the exit, checking his phone one last time before leaving the building.

 _-Hetalia-_

Neither England or Italy turned up to the conference. Germany decided to proceed as normal and for once the lack of the argumentative Brit and the dozy Italian led to relative progress in their business. Eventually, the inevitable happened and France interrupted the proceedings not long before lunch.

"Germany, I believe many here are now concerned at the whereabouts of England and Italy. May Big Brother France try and ring them before we proceed further?" France asked persuasively.

"Ja, go ahead." The German replied, taking a seat again, "Just put it on speakerphone."

France started by calling Italy.

 _Briiiing…briiiing…briiiing…briiiing… briiiing… briiiing… briiiing…_

 _"_ _I'm sorry but the person you are calling cannot pick up the phone right now, please leave a message after the tone."_

 **BLEEP**

"Very well, let us try mon petit England."

 _Briiiing…briiiing…briiiing…_

"Hello?" The word was a question and the tone of voice was curious and guarded rather than friendly.

"Bonjour, mon petite lapin! It is France." The Frenchman said, placing the phone on the table and putting it on speaker, whilst gesturing for the other nations to stay quiet by putting a finger to his lips.

"Really, thanks for telling me, I would never have worked it out from that ridiculous accent of yours." The scathing sarcasm in England's tone of voice was quite clear.

"You're welcome mes amis, I am only here to serve."

"What do you want wanker?"

"I was just wondering why you were not at the meeting today? Did you finally get laid?" France spoke suggestively, making a few kissy noises into the phone, causing some of the other nations to blush somewhat.

"Piss off and mind your own business. As it happens I am not well."

"Eat one of your own scones? I can hear a lot of traffic for someone not well." Indeed, the faint, muffled sounds of cars passing and people coming and going was quite obvious to all the other nations.

"Yes, I am going to the doctors." The exasperated Englishman explained.

"And is Italy going with you? He isn't in the meeting either." France asked curiously, trying to give the impression that he knew more than he was letting on by asking the question.

"How should I know? I barely know the git. Now will you piss off, I'm nearly there." The reply was quite aggressive, although this was hardly strange coming from the Englishman.

"Of course, mon petite, get well soon! I shall be around to your hotel room later to check up on you. Bye bye!" He hung up the phone and pocketed it before eyeing the other nations. "Well what did we all make of that?"

"England-san knows where Italy-kun is." Ventured Japan, the reserved nation sending a sideward glance to Germany as he spoke.

"Which means Italy is safe." Germany said softly, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptivity with relief, "Let's go through the facts. England would have told us if either of them were in trouble or at least left us some sort of indication, so they are both clearly safe; but England is clearly lying about being ill as well. Italy occasionally bunks off world meetings but England never does. Italy should be at home but was not there last night when I went to check on him and nobody saw England last night either, which means they left for wherever they are last night."

"Whatever it is they are doing they are clearly trying to do in secret!" Said the chair.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Canada…"

"Hey, I just realised that whatever they are doing they are obviously trying to keep secret." America piped up with pride, pleased with himself for coming up with a constructive idea. Beside him, the chair let out a longsuffering sigh.

"So, what do you think we should do next? If you want me to use Mister Pipe to teach them to turn up on time I can? Kolkolkol." Russia shifted ominously, holding his pipe with tender affection.

"Aiyaa, that's very ill advised!" China exclaimed, before expanding in a quieter voice, "Although if you do I won't stop you."

"I think our best plan would be to see what mon petite Anglais and little Italy plan to do next, leave them to it for a bit." The Frenchman chipped in, "Perhaps they have simply awoken some inner passion and are _BLEEPING_ in the _BLEEP_ by the _BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP."_

Awkward silence as most of the nations blushed and Japan drew a manga style diagram of the description in his notepad.

"Erm…moving on, I think France has the right idea…" Germany quickly backtracked, "Not about -that- bit." He clarified with a blush, "I think we should wait and see what they plan to do next. France, check on England's room tonight and I will check on Italy's house tonight. If they aren't there then we will try ringing them again tomorrow and give them two days to come back." He paused, "If they aren't back by the two days, then we will threaten to put them on the missing person register and mobilise most of the world's armies to go looking for them. After all, a Nation mustn't shirk his or her duties." He replied grimly, with something of a glint in his eyes.

The rest of the day's conference proceeded with a strange aura of quietness throughout the room.

 **A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this instalment of Pasta Tattoos. I hope the continuity of the plot makes sense, I understand that I am jumping around with time a little so please let me know if I am confusing you all. For reference, London is an hour behind Rome. I hope none of you mind me (quite literally) bleeping out France, I feel that leaving his words to your imaginations is more entertaining, closer to the anime and is the kind of thing that Germany (who's point of view this chapter is from) would tune out. Thank you for your continued support with this story and a shout-out to pastaaddict for your enthusiasm. I welcome any feedback. As ever, I don't own Hetalia.**


	6. Stage Two - Pasta Tattoos

Chapter Six - Stage Two – Pasta Tattoos

England, Italy and Romano picked up their pace after the phone call from France. They bustled through the shops of central London with renewed vigour and soon were burdened with many bags. Black Doc Martins; a ring with a skull on it; a black leather bracelet with a small silver cross on a chain dangling off it; a bottle of black hair dye and an excessive amount of hair gel. The trio paused only to pick up a quick sandwich each on the go before resuming their efforts.

It was half three in the afternoon by the time they stopped for a proper break. They had found a small café near Oxford Street and had decided to sit on a table outside – the two Italians huddled over a coffee each and the Brit making his way through a pot of Yorkshire Tea. England was preoccupied with frantically texting on his phone to someone; although the other two had no idea who. They chatted amicably while the Englishman was distracted.

"Well the Tea Bastard sure knows how to get a bit of punk gear." Commented Romano as he sipped his coffee.

"Ve…Do you think England still has some himself? It'd be great to see him dressed like that. I wonder why he stopped dressing like that. Do you think Big Brother France has any photos of him?" Italy babbled enthusiastically.

"I'm sure if he did then the Tea Bastard would get them back pretty quick. He won't let him mess around that's for sure." Romano remarked dryly, recalling past escapades of them all in the Second World War.

The two nodded their agreements with one another and fell into silence. Around them, people bustled through the busy streets. Some with hands laden with shopping bags, others dressed for business and some strapped up with rucksacks as they chatted in a multitude of languages. Locals, businessmen and tourists hurrying though the old city, their voices and footsteps forming a gentle background hum of life. Besides them, England finally put his phone down and took a delicate sip of his tea, a wicked smirk on his lips as he seemed to size the two Italians up thoughtfully.

"I think it is about time that we moved onto Stage Two of our plan." England paused for dramatic effect, "I've booked you in for a tattoo Italy." England finally spoke after a long pause. Both the brothers looked up in surprise, Romano's mouth forming a perfect O of shock as Italy's eyes widened.

"Ve…a tattoo?!" He exclaimed loudly, "But don't they hurt?"

"I won't let you force my brother to do anything he doesn't want to Tea Bastard!" Romano slammed his coffee mug down loudly as he spoke, a scowl on his features as his chocolate coloured eyes glared into the Englishman's emeralds.

"Oh don't you worry about that! I have booked him in because the place I usually go to has a long waiting list. I pulled a few strings to get him in tonight. If he does not want a tattoo then I certainly won't force him." He took a small sip of his tea, a glint in his eyes as his gaze flickered between the two of them. "I must admit it hurts a little, but not so mu-"

"Wait a minute…." Romano interrupted. "What do you mean the place YOU usually go to?"

"Oh I have six tattoos currently." England replied, the gentleman clearly enjoying the shocked expressions of his companions.

"Six? Ve…what are they all?"

"I have a tattoo of the Union Flag on my right thigh; the Tudor Rose is on my lower back; I've got a guitar on my…well…" He blushed a little, looking awkward for the first time, "My rear end."

"Mister stick-up-his-arse, perfect manners, bastard, tea-drinking Englishman…has a tattoo…of a guitar…on his arse…?" Romano practically spelt it out, his eyes looking close to falling out their sockets as he spoke. It was clear he would sooner believe England about his unicorns and fairies than believe his tattoo stories.

"Of course! That was the only one I had done whilst drunk. Still, I don't regret it. It's a rather nice guitar." England replied, his embarrassment soon replaced by a mild sense of smugness at the reactions of the two.

"They say never judge a book by its cover and I never will again. Jeez…" Romano trailed off, downing the rest of his coffee in one as though hoping to drown his sorrows.

"I think it's nice you have lots of tattoos Mister England. What other ones do you have?" Italy chipped in, curiosity overwhelming him.

"I have a tattoo of a ship on my right upper arm." England lifted up the sleeve of his dress shirt to show them this one. There was a black outline of a sailing ship, swirling on a stormy sea on his skin. The design was small but beautiful and fitted his skin well. There was no colour to it, only black and the light pink of his soft skin. "The design was modelled on HMS Victory, my favourite ship."

The two Italians sent the design admiring glances. The tattoo finally seemed to prove to them both that England was telling the truth about his tattoos and they both had similar expressions of surprise mixed with admiration on their features. Italy reached out and traced his finger delicately over the design. England raised his eyebrows but did not move away, surprised and a little uncomfortable over the physical contact but not so much to risk upsetting the Italian.

"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy mumbled thoughtfully. "This is a beautiful piece of art." His renaissance mode activated and he beamed a smile. "I think I would not mind art on me so much if it was as nice as this."

"All tattoos are just art. Besides, for us they are not permanent anyway." England explained, "They only last about forty to sixty years before fading as our skin regenerates." Pulling away from Italy, he rolled his sleeve down again and took a sip of his tea. "If a nation gets a tattoo it stays for a while before fading unless you get it redone. And you can always get it removed earlier through that new-fangled process if you wanted."

"That doesn't sound so bad!" Italy beamed a smile, folding his arms and looking between the two of them. "Maybe I will just get a little tattoo."

"Well there's no pressure. It will hurt remember so if you don't want to then neither of us will force you." England spoke gently.

"Do what you want bastard, but just make sure you pick a good design." Romano grumbled, not entirely convinced about the idea, but seeming to relax a bit when England explained the lack of permanency. After all, having a design on your skin for life means something else entirely when you are effectively immortal like the nations are. "Still, I want to know what your other tattoos are?" Romano said, eyeing England again.

"Well, I have a tattoo on my ankle of a unicorn." He ignored Romano's derisive laughter, "It is not a feminine tattoo just to clarify."

"Sure, it's not…" Romano teased, smirking at England's slightly affronted look.

"Tattoos are about being who you want to be anyway. Seeing as nobody believes me about the unicorns I can see, it's nice to have something that they _can_ see." England explained, although he still looked a little offended.

"I'm sure it looks very nice! Although not as nice as pasta looks." Italy's wisdom was infallible for the situation.

"Anyway," England interjected before Romano could chip in or Italy could go off on a tirade of pasta-love, "My last tattoo is a Celtic Cross in between my shoulder blades. I never could work out if I was Catholic or Protestant but Celts are a part of my history and so is Christianity so I thought that was a good compromise. It's my oldest tattoo, I've had it since I was a very young nation."

The two were a little surprised by this. Italy felt less afraid of England now than he had for centuries. The variety of tattoos and the meaning and history behind them had taken the Italian by surprise and he felt that there was a lot more to the Island Nation than met the eye. He drained the last of his coffee. A sense of decisiveness overcame Italy and he placed the cup down thoughtfully, looking between the others earnestly.

"Ve…what should I get my tattoo of?"

 _-Hetalia-_

They had gone back to England's flat not long after that, deciding to take the tube before the rush hour descended on London. Once there, they had sorted through Italy's new possessions and England had dyed Italy's hair black. The process had been remarkably smooth, although the Italian did end up wearing some of the black hair dye on his knee – goodness knows how it had got there but Italy had a lot of skills in chaos and destruction. The dark hair colour felt odd to the bubbly Italian but he was slowly getting used to seeing it in the mirror in England's lounge. The first time he saw it he retreated behind the sofa with a white flag until he realised it was himself in the mirror and not a dark-haired burglar.

England had disappeared into his bedroom for a while and had reappeared with a small box which he gave to Italy. When the Italian opened it up he found a large selection of silver and black false piercings of varying types.

"I still wear them sometimes. I let my own piercing holes close up." England explained. "You should find false piercings for your tongue, several for your ears and one for your nose. I've cleaned them all so you should be fine to wear them."

It took some time to get Italy into the piercings but soon the Italian started to look the part. Something about Italy with a tongue piercing gave England the shivers and made him glad that the Italian was still as naïve as ever. Romano hardly recognised his brother when he emerged from the kitchen with pasta for three. Still, he was starting to quite enjoy seeing Italy look less likely a wimp and more like the grandchild of the Roman Empire.

The three ate their dinner and then decided to head out to the tattoo parlour. Italy left his 'piercings' in, deciding to try and get used to the odd feeling of the foreign objects on his skin and body.

 _-Hetalia-_

The tattoo parlour was in east end of London, not far from the Thames. From the outside, it looked a grimy little place plonked haphazardly between some terraces, a few flats and a fish and chips takeaway shop. It had no windows and the door was painted in black with a single sign above it saying _Tom's Tatt's_ in large red letters. England waltzed up to it and knocked confidently on the door, despite the small closed sign that was hanging up on a peg in front of him.

"Go away, we are fucking closed." A male voice with a thick, cockney accent yelled; the anger muffled by the door.

"It's your favourite customer, Arthur." England replied with a light-hearted tone, knocking louder in response to his anger.

The two Italians watched the exchange dubiously. Romano already had his doubts about the place, but after half heartedly vowing not to judge things by their appearance again, he thought he should give it a chance. Italy was happily looking for material to make a white flag with, the place and the person behind the door terrifying him enough to resort to his favourite 'weapon'. When the door opened, he let out a little squeak and hid behind Romano, peaking over his brother's shoulder to eye the owner of the tattoo parlour.

The man was a good six foot two inches tall and broad shouldered to boot. He had muscle born from hours at the gym and looked like he could pick up all three of the petite nations with one hand. His hair was dyed black, green and orange and was spiked into five different directions and his beard was pointed and bright green. Italy counted five piercings on his face and at least that many on each of his ears. The man was dressed in a black tank top with the words _I Fuck Tits_ designed in silver letters on it. He was wearing black leather trousers and huge, thick, black boots which added another two inches to his height. Overall, he looked terrifying and both Italy and Romano were ready to bolt a mile in retreat from him.

England approached him and they awkwardly hugged, the man looking about three times the size of the small nation.

"Tom! I dare say, it's jolly good to see you."

"Arthur! It has been too long. You don't look a day older you lucky fucker." Tom glanced at the two Italians over England's shoulder. "These the guys you were telling me about?"

"This is Feliciano and Romano. Feliciano needs a tattoo and I know nobody better to do it." England grinned, clearly hoping to flatter the man's ego a little.

"He looks a weedy lad, but I'll give it a go. I still owe you one for that time Arthur." Tom glanced at his watch briefly before beckoning them in, "Let's get this over with then. Come on in."

England strolled in with confidence whilst the other two trotted in hesitantly behind him. They were presently surprised by the interior which was bathed with lamp light and airier than the outside would suggest. The walls were white washed and covered with A4 posters of tattoo designs of all shapes and sizes. A few benches and magazines along with a small till made up the only furnishings of the room. Two doors led off, one with a large sign that said _PRIVATE_ on it and the other which said _TATTOO ROOM._ England sat down on one of the benches and beckoned the others to take a seat which they did with trepidation.

"So, do you even have a tattoo design?" Tom asked, eyeing up Italy with doubt in his hard gaze.

"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy squeaked nervously before pulling out a picture and giving it to the man. "Here!"

Tom snatched it up and stared at it for a long moment before looking back at the Italian. His expression turned into a hard frown before he spoke, "You do know this is permanent right?"

"Ve…I do…sir!" Italy swallowed thickly, wondering how quickly he could make a retreat from the room if he tried.

"Well…if you're sure?" One nod from Italy was the confirmation he needed and he turned and made his way to the tattoo room. "Let's get this over with then…"

 _-Hetalia-_

Although Italy had wailed a lot throughout the process, both Romano and England were surprised he did not come flying out the door until the tattoo was finished. The wailing had eventually stopped after what sounded like some kind of threat from Tom and everyone was grateful for the peace it brought. Romano spent the time texting Spain to check up on his beloved kitten Tomato and was relieved to hear that the cat was fine, if well fed on milk and making friends with some turtles. England sat and embroidered, having had the common sense to pack his needlepoint with him for the wait.

When the door opened, both looked up expectantly as a nervous looking Italy emerged, his right forearm wrapped tightly with clingfilm.

"Well…let's see it!" England put down his embroidery hoop with a grin and leaned forward in anticipation.

"Italy – you bastard. That tattoo is perfect…"

 **A/N: Hello! It has been a while. Thanks for reading and your support with my story, I will get it finished eventually. I still don't own Hetalia. For reference: Oxford Street in London is where a lot of the big shops are and is the equivalent of a high street in some ways. Let me know if you want clarification on the history of England's tattoos? I might add in a little side story or sub chapter about them.**


	7. The Perishing Pancakes

Chapter Seven – The Perishing Pancakes

 **A/N: Warnings for alcohol, cross dressing and innuendo.**

Germany was very unsure how it had come to this.

The meeting had tapered off after France's phone call and it was not long until all the nations gave up on trying to get any work done and decided to go drinking instead. Germany did not have enough resilience to put up much of a fight and soon gave up trying to be productive, on the proviso that they would do double the work tomorrow. The nations headed down to a small local bar which they had frequented on a few occasions in the past. Fortunately, the barman did not recognise them and there were very few locals there. Several of the Italian locals soon became scarce after seeing Germany.

Somehow several nations who were _not_ invited to the world meeting had ended up invited to the drinking session and were causing havoc with their presence. Germany's brother being the one of the main culprits. Prussia had a knack for causing chaos wherever he went, especially when with his friends.

Germany had not even wanted to go to the bar but was practically dragged there against his will. France could be very persuasive at times, especially when combined with Prussia and Spain. The self-proclaimed Bad Touch Trio had decided to get Germany drunk through any means necessary. It turns out that his blasted brother had got his hands on several compromising photos of Germany and Italy together. One was of Germany knelt down in front of Italy at an unfortunate height as the long-suffering German tried to tie his friend's shoelaces. The second was of Germany and Italy in bed together (seriously how/why did Italy always end up in Germany's bed – the German had guard dogs for goodness sake). The last photo was of Italy and Germany looking at each other longingly in very close proximity. This photo failed to capture the wurst behind Italy's head and the pasta behind Germany's head. All perfectly innocent photos but if France/Hungary/Japan got their perverted hands on them then the poor German would never live it down.

So, he had been 'persuaded' (aka blackmailed by an annoying big brother), to come to the bar on the condition that it would only be _one_ beer. Of course, that was about six beers ago.

Germany had forgotten how soothing alcohol could be at times. He drank a lot of beer, but it was almost always in small doses and he often drank non-alcoholic beer when the opportunity presented itself. Better non-alcoholic beer than to risk Italy's driving or Japan's judging. Occasionally he had been known to let loose with his friends, particularly when his brother got involved but it happened very infrequently. He almost never drunk to avoid/forget his problems. Yet here he was, sat at the bar next to America of all people on his seventh pint and unloading his problems to the bemused American.

"It's just…it's just Italy is so daft! I mean he boiled all the water in the desert for pasta for goodness sake. Who even does that? And now he is probably gone off with England of all people. I mean you know England, I know England. The man will have either turned Italy into a scone or have him speaking with a British accent!" Germany rambled.

"Least old Iggy'll keep him safe. You're less angsty than drunk Iggy." America replied, a twinkle in his rich blue eyes as he sipped his Coca-Cola.

"I just hope Italy is alright. I mean he has never run off like this before." Germany took a long, mournful swig of his beer.

"Oh I'm sure he won't be mad at you for long, or my name ain't America! He ain't the sort to stay mad for long."

"Nein, I suppose you are right." He sighed, downing a good portion of his beer in one, "I just…Italy is so innocent. I mean…I'd hate it if anything bad happened to him. It'd be like kicking a puppy. If he ever lost that innocence and that smile I don't know what I would do." Germany mused, half talking to his pint glass, half to the American.

"I doubt that'd happen anytime soon. Besides, if it did happen I'd bring him back because I am the hero." America pointed at himself with a thumb and flashed an award-winning smile at the German.

Germany replied with a very unnatural sounding giggle which made him hiccup loudly, "You and your hero nonsense. You're as bad as Italy at times, Mein Freund." He furrowed his brow before turning his head as a rather appalling noise drifted through the drunken haze of his mind. He turned to look over his shoulder and his jaw dropped at the scene before him.

Behind them a scene of gradually unfolding chaos began to overwhelm the bar. Somehow France, Spain and Prussia had all ended up in women's clothing and were currently on the karaoke singing Beyoncé's _Single Ladies_ and doing all the dance moves in perfect synchronisation. Prussia looked damned good slut dropping in stockings, blouse, mini skirt and heels; although perhaps he was the only one to think so.

Meanwhile, Japan had gone into socially awkward overdrive at the scene that the European's were presenting and was sat on a bench, quietly live streaming the scene to Hungary on his smartphone, whilst simultaneously rocking backwards and forwards and muttering about Westerners.

China had somehow kicked the barman out and had taken over the kitchen and bar, providing food, drinks and his world-renowned catering. He seemed to have doubled the price of most of the drinks and was pocketing the proceeds for himself. The owner of the bar was last seen packing his bags and muttering in Italian about taking an extended trip to South America.

Russia was in the middle of the dance floor, completely on his own and appeared to be slow dancing with a very, very empty bottle of vodka and his beloved pipe. A large smile was plastered on his face and he could be faintly heard crooning a slow, power ballad (possibly _I Will Always Love You)_ in a mixture of Russian and English. Considering he was not the least bit in time with the painful rendition of _Single Ladies_ and he was obviously drunk, his singing was surprisingly good.

In a far corner of the bar was a table laden with a plate of pancakes and a half-pint of non-alcoholic beer. The pancake to maple syrup ratios were approximately one gram of pancake to forty grams of maple syrup. Slowly, the pancakes vanished in small portions. The mystery of the disappearing pancakes would become a local legend and haunt the bar for several generations. Eventually the bar would be renamed _The Perishing Pancakes_ and won several awards for its ghost tours and horror nights.

 _Single Ladies_ had finished and now France was going solo. Dressed in nothing but a blue dress with a very short skirt, he was singing _I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt_ in fluent French and had started to do a strip tease of what little he was wearing. This seemed to have triggered something in Russia who had drunkenly staggered over to the karaoke stage. En-route he abandoned his empty vodka bottle and his pipe to an empty seat each. Upon reaching the stage, the giant Russian decided to pick up France with one arm, tucking him neatly under his armpit and turned to the microphone.

"Shirt become one with Mother Russia da?"

The music changed as Russia kidnaped France and placed him under a table with strict instructions not to move. France had produced fluffy, pink handcuffs from goodness knows where and was soon chained to the table by a very willing, albeit very innocent, Russia who then went to purchase more vodka, abandoning France to the floor.

On the stage, Prussia had decided to take over the show with his own solo. _Holding Out For A Hero_ blasted across the bar, with Prussia fluently singing the lyrics, not bothering to glance at the words. America perked up considerably and decided to become Prussia's hero. Whilst the song played, America crept up onto the stage. Prussia quickly picked up on the American's antics and started singing to the American, wafting his arms at America every time he sang the word hero. America disappeared behind the bar for all of thirty seconds before remerging in nothing but Captain America pants and an American flag dangled over his shoulders as a cape. When the song finally ended, America went over and scooped Prussia up into his arms, carrying him off the stage bridal style.

In a quiet corner, Japan had a nosebleed.

Meanwhile, on stage, Spain had decided to take over with a delightful song composed by himself.

"I boss-Spain dedicate this one to Romano…" Apparently Spain had forgotten that Romano was currently in England and he was meant to be at home guarding Tomato the kitten.

 _"I like tomatoes,_

 _I like tomatoes,_

 _Just a shame the only thing that rhymes with them is potatoes…sort of…"_

Somewhere in Austria a certain Nation felt the need to simultaneously scream and play Chopin for the rest of the day and night. His bad music tastes were tingling.

 _"I like turtles,_

 _I like turtles,_

 _I really need to like things that rhyme with other things…"_

In England, Romano felt the sudden need to scream profanities. His Spain-is-doing-something-really-stupid senses were tingling.

 _"I like churros,_

 _I like churros,_

 _But I definitely don't like walrus…"_

It was at this point that China had managed to pull the plug on the speakers and Prussia took the trouble to tackle Spain to the ground. There was a great sense of relief across the bar.

A few minutes later and the Bad Touch Trio had been kicked out the bar. China had put on some background music which appeared to mostly be songs about pandas but there was a unanimous agreement that this was preferable to what was going on before.

Germany decided that only another pint would cure him of the mental scars he had suffered from the night out…

 **A/N: Filler chapter with very little plot relevance. I hope you enjoyed. I don't own Hetalia or any of the songs mentioned other than Spain's song. Thank you for reading, reviewing and your continued support with my story.**


	8. Stage Three - The Punk Perspective

Chapter Eight – Stage Three – The Punk Perspective

Italy, Romano and England had gone back to England's flat after paying for the tattoo. Satisfied with a hard day of work they had settled onto the sofa under some blankets and put a film on. Unfortunately, the only DVDs that England owned were _Carry On Camping,_ David Attenborough's _Blue Planet_ and _Monty Python's Flying Circus*._ Watching whales and fish seemed the most appropriate somehow and the trio curled up with popcorn to learn about the creatures of the ocean.

Three episodes later and Italy and Romano were curled up together and sound asleep. Romano had wrapped a protective arm around his little brother. Somehow, the pair looked very sweet and innocent in their sleep; relaxed and without a care in the world. England could not help but smile, reminded of some of his colonies in their youth. Even little America had looked that sweet once upon a time.

Turning off the DVD, England took the time to make sure they were firmly settled underneath a blanket before he slipped off to his bedroom and settled in his bed. The pair simply looked too adorable to disturb and he was not such a bad host to wake them when they were that soundly asleep. England settled into his bed and was soon asleep, dreaming of dolphins, shoals of fish and penguins.

 _-Hetalia-_

Romano awoke to another tray of sausage sandwiches, tea for three and a small, pink rose in a vase. He was a little stiff from his time on the sofa, but he felt well rested. Carefully, he nudged his brother awake before taking the tray off of England.

"Thanks, Tea Bastard." He mumbled gruffly, eyeing England as the man poured a cup of tea for each of them. Grabbing a cup and a sandwich, England moved to the armchair and took a seat.

"Ve…ve…ve…ve…" Italy mumbled as he slowly awoke, beaming his characteristic smile to the pair.

Soon, all three were tucking into the slightly overdone sausage sandwiches and were sipping at their tea. Romano had to admit that tea was not too bad when England made it. It was just a shame that their host did not have that magic touch with his cooking.

"So today, we have to instigate stage three of my plan." England explained between mouthfuls of sausage. "I have booked a flight for us this evening. That will give us time to stop off at Spain's house to pick up your kitten before staying at Italy and Romano's house tonight. I am afraid I have taken a liberty in inviting myself to yours, but the last thing I want is to get the other nations on my back if they spot me around the hotel." England explained, blushing a little.

"Ve…it is the least we could do! We can have pasta! Pasta, pasta! I'll make you pasta!" Italy exclaimed loudly.

"How will we present Italy with his new look?" Romano asked.

"I have an idea for that. But first, we need to teach Italy a little bit in punk manners." England grinned with a glint in his eye.

"You do know my brother is a coward?" Romano spoke slowly, forgoing to mention that he is also easily put in the coward bracket.

"I haven't forgotten. We only need to keep up appearances for a few days at most. Or long enough to give that damned Kraut a run for his money anyway." England finished his sandwich and sipped at his cup of tea.

It was not long before they had finished their breakfast and England was standing in front of his flip chart. The words _Stage Three – Get Some Attitude_ were printed neatly on the centre of the page and were circled neatly.

"Right then…let's get down to business, to defeat the Hun." England blushed and coughed when he realised he had just referenced a Disney film, "Flipping Nora, I spend too much time around America…" He trailed off sadly, failing to adequately clarify who Nora was to the bemused Italians. "Let's start with some basics. Italy, what makes you scared of Germany?"

"Ve…well…sometimes Germany doesn't have pasta and then I'm sad. Sometimes he shouts at me but I know he does it as a friend and not as a bad guy but it's still very scary. Sometimes I find dirty magazines about dogs under his bed…"

Romano and England exchanged a confused look.

"What were you doing looking under that Potato Bastard's bed? I swear if he was doing anything to you I'll whip out the moustache again…" Romano grumbled.

"Sometimes, I'm scared he will leave me forever and run away with Russia and be friends with him instead. But he made me a pinky promise so it must be okay right?" Italy looked up at them sadly.

"Yes, I dare say that damned Kraut is not one to break promises easily." England replied thoughtfully, "What else makes you scared Italy?"

"Ve…ve…ve…" Italy blinked before replying, "Sometimes I don't have any pasta and that's very scary. Very scary." The Italian emphasised the point.

"What makes you feel brave?"

"Grandpa Roma makes me feel brave, ve!" Italy said, perking up at the mention of his grandparent.

"Hmm…I think I have an idea then…" England spoke thoughtfully.

 _-Hetalia-_

A few tube rides later found the trio in a recording studio in south London. England had apparently pulled a few favours and booked the place out for the sole use of the unlikely group. Both Italy and Romano were terribly confused about why they were here but decided not to question the ex-pirate's methods.

"Do you remember when we were attacking the Axis Powers on that island and Rome appeared in the sky and started singing?" England finally decided to explain.

"Grandpa Roma always sings so nice!" Italy exclaimed happily.

"Well we are going to recreate that song. Or namely, the two of you are while I record it." England said.

"Why are we doing that? Tea Bastard's off his nut." Romano grumbled, although his curiosity was clearly piqued.

"If this is the thing that makes Italy brave, then this is what we need when he feels cowardly." England replied, a smirk of triumph on his lips, clearly quite chuffed with his idea, "That and several emergency boxes of pasta which we will all be armed with."

The idea finally seemed to make sense to them and both Romano and Italy looked quite pleased.

"Ve…England I think you might be right! That's a brilliant idea. It's a shame we couldn't have the help of Austria though. He would have been good to help us musically." Italy rambled.

"Piano Bastard hasn't got our talent. Let's get warming up."

 _-Hetalia-_

Soon, the lyrics drifted around the recording studio as the duo of Italians sang. Their voices were good and they were even able to harmonize somewhat. England sat behind the recording desk, twiddling dials and knobs with the expertise that practice can bring, although goodness knows when or where he learnt that skill.

 _"_ _On Earth Hell can be like this:_

 _The cooks are British,_

 _The police are German,_

 _The mechanics are Swiss,_

 _And the bankers are Italian._

 _On Earth Heaven can be like this:_

 _The cooks are French,_

 _The police are British,_

 _The mechanics are German,_

 _The bankers are swiss,_

 _And the lovers are Italian."_

There was only a minor incident when England questioned the validity of the song. It turns out the Brit got ever so offended when someone questioned his cooking. Even if they were the words of an undead ex-nation, sung during a World War Two battlefield for no reason whatsoever.

After an hour or so of recording, they had a successful piece of music, with a light acoustic guitar accompaniment provided by England. It turned out the Brit had a lot of talent for the guitar. They uploaded the track to Italy's phone and popped to the shop to buy him skin coloured, wireless headphones. They reasoned that blending them into the background would be the best way forward.

 _-Hetalia-_

England then took them on the tube to their next destination. They soon found themselves standing outside a large gym. Paying for their entrance, they made their way inside and headed to the workout area. It was a wide-open space, with large windows to let in the soft, summer light. The floor was made of polished wood and the walls were whitewashed with cream paint. A panel of mirrors made up one of the walls. Various types of gym equipment littered the floor: from treadmills, to rowing machines, to cross-trainers, to punchbags – this gym had the lot. It was to a punchbag that England led the unusual trio.

"I'm aware that Germany has done a lot of training with you, but my training is not about getting fit." England said, glancing between the two uncomfortable looking Italians who clearly did not spend much time in gyms. "Italy, I want you to release some anger. Get some angst in you and get a bit of attitude. You need to go into that conference room tomorrow and bloody rebel. Show that damned Kraut who is boss." England fist pumped as he spoke, getting a little too into his motivational speech.

"Ve…ve…ve…ve…ve…" Italy replied, smiling inanely.

"We could try throwing grenades at him? I did that once; damned Potato Bastard didn't know what hit him." Romano of course failed to mention that he got the pin and the grenade the wrong way around…

England rolled his eyes at them both before picking up a pair of boxing gloves and giving them to Italy. "Here, put these on – mind that tattoo though!"

Italy pulled the red gloves on and struck a pose before giggling a little, "This is such fun! Big brother Romano, you should have a go!"

"It's not meant to be fun." England sighed. He recalled that time he had spied on Italy, Japan and Germany in a training session and for once felt something akin to sympathy to Germany. "Right, punch that bag as hard as you can."

Italy skipped around for a few minutes, flailing inanely in what he deemed a threatening manner. Unfortunately, everyone else with a brain cell thought the Italian looked like a Morris dancer** crossed with a boxer who had just spent forty minutes spinning in circles and then entered the ring. After a long period of flailing, the Italian connected fist to punchbag with a very pathetic, slight thump sound. He then turned and beamed proudly at England, pleased with his levels of (not) aggression.

"Okay, well that's a good start." England replied sarcastically, trying to keep the patronisation out of his tones. "Now, I want you to close your eyes."

Italy, dutifully obeyed – or did he just have his eyes closed anyway?

"I want you to imagine that you are in a room. There's a large buffet table on one side of the room. You move closer to the table. You are very happy, there are dishes of pasta, tomatoes and gelato. You pick up a dish of pasta and are just about to dig in when Germany comes over and takes the pasta off you. He then drags you out of the room and locks the door. You cannot have any pasta! He stole it from you." England's tones were soothing, his story telling enough to ignite the Italian's imagination. "Now, punch that bag as though it is the door to your pasta. Nothing will get in between Italy and your pasta!"

Italy opened his eyes and furrowed his brows, resembling Romano's scowl. Turning, he put one foot forward and leant his weight onto this foot as his arm came crashing forwards, smashing into the punchbag with some force.

"PASTA!" He screamed, the battle cry appropriate as the punchbag wobbled from the force of his blow. Italy breathed heavily, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Jolly good show!" England exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

"Punch the Potato Bastard like that and I will make you more pasta than you can ever eat!" Romano exclaimed, pride radiating from his soft, brown eyes.

"Romano, the goal is not to physically hurt Germany." England admonished, "We simply want to give him a little…surprise!" A wicked smirk lit up his features. "Now, Italy. I want you to take that feeling of anger and use it. Pretend everything that anyone says to you is the same as them taking away your pasta."

"I don't like being angry much…" The Italian mournfully said.

"You don't have to be angry, just rebellious. So, if I ask you to go run around the gym for seven laps. You don't try it, you simply say: 'Bugger off wanker, you run around the gym for seven laps.'" England explained, "Let's try it!"

Italy nodded keenly to the suggestion, eager to please his newfound friend.

"Italy, go run around the gym!" England spoke in a commanding tone, standing up to his full height and pulling his thick eyebrows into a devilish frown.

"Wah! I don't want to!" Italy began shaking his head frantically, his fingers twitching as they instinctively tried to find the nearest white flag.

Menacingly, the Englishman took a threatening step towards Italy. "What do you mean you don't want to? Do it!" He commanded in a voice that would definitely have France running for the hills.

"Ve…ve…ve…ve…" Italy trailed off. He felt under pressure, conflicted. Mostly he wanted to run away in terror, or to waft a white flag around, but he knew he had to be rebellious. He could not disappoint England after he had shown him so much kindness. He really did want to show Germany a thing or two as well. Prove that he was not as weak as the German thought he was. Thoughts whirled around his head, until one stood out: _imagine England has stolen your pasta._ A scowl suddenly flicked across the brunette's brows and his instinctively squared up to England and deepened his voice. "You go run a lap around the gym!" He cried, flitting into the role as sudden anger overtook him. "Go run around the gym and then bite my Italian arse and give me back my PASTA!" Italy almost screamed the last word.

 _He stole my pasta…_

And then Italy sent a gloved fist to England's face with the same force that he used on the punchbag...

England could not tell whether he felt pride of Italy's rebellion or anger and embarrassment at being floored by the weakest Nation he had ever met. He crumpled to the ground in a dazed heap, mumbling something about the goal not being to hurt Germany.

Little Italy's chased bowls of pasta in circles around his head…

 _-Hetalia-_

After nearly knocking England out, the Englishman was given an icepack before they were escorted firmly from the premises with the threat of police action if they were seen there again.

They were soon back at England's flat. Romano had not stopped laughing since the incident (after a brief thirty seconds of checking that England was alive and was not going to beat the two Italian's to smithereens). Italy had not stopped apologising despite being told multiple times not to say sorry and to be proud of his actions. England was slightly confused about the day of the week and kept telling Italy not to apologise.

England decided shortly after to go for a little lie down to let his headache go away, leaving Romano strict instructions to make some pasta for the journey back to Rome and to teach his brother as much bad language as he could in the meantime.

 _-Hetalia-_

A nap, a quick session of packing, a taxi ride, a flight to Rome and a brief call to Spain to pick up a well-fed kitten. The day was a long one and flew by without much incident after that. Romano had spent a good deal of time teaching Italy all sorts of choice language, all the way to Rome – much to the chagrin of one or two parents on the flight back. England slept the first half of the flight and spent the second half coaching and drilling the two about the World Conference plan. After all this effort they were not going to let it fail now.

They finally found themselves back in Italy's house. Exhausted from their day they sat around eating pizza. Tomato the kitten was being cuddled by a possessive Romano. England was going through the final drill for tomorrow and Italy was nodding along keenly.

"So, remember, follow my strict instructions. Use everything we have taught you. If you need emergency pasta then the codeword is pasta. If you need an emergency cowardice moment then the codeword is pizza. If you want me and Romano to intervene then the codeword is tomato. Got it?"

"Ve…ve…I think so England!" The Italian looked a little nervous as he nodded.

"Good…tomorrow should be an excellent conference then…"

 **A/N: I don't own Hetalia.**

 **Sorry if the ending seemed a little rushed, but we are getting close to the climax of the story. Still a good few chapters to go though. Thank you for reading and reviewing. Don't worry about the tattoo – all will become clear soon! Please let me know if I have accidentally included any cultural references that need further clarification.**

 ***Carry on films are classic British comedy films with a lot of innuendo; Monty Python are a classic British comedy group who did various sketches and films; David Attenborough is a BBC narrator/presenter who has done a lot of documentaries about wildlife/nature etc. I recommend any of them.**

 ****For anyone who wants to know what a Morris dancer is – it's a traditional English dance – probably best to google/YouTube it.**


	9. Back in Black

Chapter Nine – Back in Black

Germany woke up convinced he had seven large elephants balanced on his skull. It took him a few moments to establish that he had a hangover. Languidly, he smacked his lips, trying to get a little moisture into his dry mouth. Stretching, he rolled over in his bed lazily – only to let out a short, sharp, girly scream.

"ARGH! Sheiße!" He screamed, before rolling off the bed into a heap in the floor.

The reason for his fright was the presence of his stark-naked older brother who was squashed into his bed and was cuddling a large orange and white traffic cone like a teddy bear. Frankly, the unexpected sight would be enough to give anyone a fright, especially when you have just woken up. The cuffuffle from Germany stirred Prussia who woke up with a groan, clutching his head.

"Mein Gott! Ficken…where did I get a traffic cone from?" Prussia moaned.

"I don't care, go put some clothes on now!" Yelled Germany in a very loud whisper. Even Germany's anger could be contained by a raging hangover.

 _-Hetalia-_

It was not long before they were back in the conference. Well, Germany was back in the conference room, Prussia was sitting with Spain in a ventilation shaft overlooking the conference room. Clearly, the best cure for a hangover was to sit with one of your best friends and stalk your brother and other best friend with an army of pranks stowed at your disposal. They sat and ate churros (Spain's best cure for a hangover) and quietly commentated on the conference below.

 _"_ _So, Italy and England still have not showed up."_ The muffled voice of Germany drifted up to them. Even they could tell his headache was not just down to his hangover.

 _"_ _I'm sure they are having a very good time honhonhonhon."_

 _"_ _Do you think they have gone to my place to become one with Mother Russia, da?"_

"That Russian gives the awesome me the creeps."

"Would you like more churros?" whispered Spain to Prussia.

"Ja, danke!" The albino replied politely.

 _"_ _Did you ever check to see if England was in his room last night, France?"_ They could just make out the German taking a sip of a strong, black coffee as he tried to cure his hangover.

 _"_ _No sign of him, apparently mon petite lapin checked out the night before last."_

 _"_ _Aiyaa, clearly he was lying on the phone. If he is dead I will sell all his stuff for a cut-price."_ China chipped in (un)helpfully.

 _"_ _Iggy has probably just gone to play with his invisible friends or something. Italy is probably just on a three-day nap. But when they come back I will tell them off, because I am the hero!"_

"It's a shame we don't have a cardboard cut out of Italy. The awesome me could have totally tricked West into thinking he was really there."

"If only Romano was here, I'm sure we could have tricked them into thinking Romano was Italy. I could have bribed him with tomatoes." It is unclear whether Spain had just forgotten England, Italy and Romano's plans or whether he was improving his acting skills.

 _"_ _I did visit Italy's house last night and found he was not there again. Well, we still have a lot of business to attend to today. We still have twenty-four hours for them to come back before we really get into action. Russia, I believe it was your turn to present on climate change…"_

The meeting progressed in relative peace. The only interruptions were the stink bombs that Prussia and Spain threw into the room (bad move for people stuck in a ventilation shaft…); and when they later decided to release thirteen live sparrows into the room. It turned out that thirteen sparrows were enough to cause a lot of chaos and leave more bird droppings than one would initially have suspected.

 _-Hetalia-_

That evening, Germany went back to his room for an early night. The German had no intention of ever repeating the previous night's drunken shenanigans again. He was still frightfully worried about his Italian friend. Although he was almost certain that Italy was with England and therefore, safe; he could not help but feel that something was very amiss. Italy always picked up his mobile when Germany called. He always told Germany if he was going away for long. Italy always came to the conferences he was supposed to, even though he rarely did much in the way of contributing to them. It was rare for the Italian to miss a chance to sleep in Germany's bed let alone anything else. Although Prussia had managed to fulfil that task the previous night. Germany let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Damned, bruder…" He mumbled to himself.

After spending some time lost in his thoughts, he quickly decided to flick the television on. Soon, he lost himself in a silly film about goats and was gorging on a takeaway pizza. Some subconscious part of him hoped that the Italian food and relaxed atmosphere might somehow draw Italy back to the German's side.

Once the film had finished, Germany cleaned up his dinner and took a long, hot bath in his small en-suite bathroom. He clothed himself in clean pyjamas and then settled down in his bed, more than ready for an early night. The German was lost in dreamless sleep in less than five minutes.

 _-Hetalia-_

The next morning, Germany woke up bright and early. Feeling energised after his good night of sleep, he went for a quick jog around the block. Then, he showered, got himself dressed and went down for breakfast. A bowl of cornflakes and two slices of toast and marmalade later and the German set off for the conference room.

As usual, he was the first one there. After the bird related chaos of the previous day, the German had stayed behind to clean the conference room (twice in one week was a bit much really). Slowly, he scoured the rest of the room before the meeting started. Theoretically a cleaner environment would lead to clearer thoughts and more productivity; although in practice this almost never happened with the chaotic nations.

After about fifteen minutes, the other nations started to file in. Everyone chatted amongst themselves as they took their seats. France was telling the assembly about his latest conquest in the bedroom when the door opened to reveal someone unexpected.

"Ah, England, you have finally chosen to join us." Germany stated as he eyed the Englishman suspiciously.

Marching into the room with confidence, England took a seat next to France and opposite the door. Nothing seemed amiss with him, no tell-tale signs of illness or stress. In fact, he seemed more relaxed than he had in a while. A small glint of a smirk could be seen in his bright, green eyes and twitching across his lips.

"My good fellows, I would not have missed this were I not unwell." England sighed dramatically and not even America was gullible to believe his words.

"Did you finally get laid? I knew mon grand ami sourcils had a bit of a -BEEP- in him. Did she like it up the -BEEP- with the -BLEEP- in the -BEEP-?" France winked outrageously and blew a kiss England's way.

"I am not going to dignify that with an answer you bloody French wanking git-tits." The Englishman grumbled, his good mood already strained in the presence of his long-time rival.

"Ahh, l'amour!" France cooed.

"England-san please ignore France-san. Although it would be good if you could truthfully answer the question of your whereabouts?" Japan replied with a blank gaze in England's direction.

"If England get's out of the meeting that easily then we all should aru."

"Can we get hamburgers yet?" America decided to get right to the heart of the matter in hand.

"Mister Kumichi, would you like pancakes soon?" The chair spoke quietly.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Canada."

"Argh! The ghost is back! I'm scared – I'm scared! I'm scared." America took that moment to get up and start running around in circles in blind panic at the sound of the _ghost._

"Ghost become one with Mother Russia da?"

"Mon petite Canada is not a ghost – he is an angel!" France replied smoothly only to meet a sea of blank faces.

"Who is Canada?" America voiced the question that everyone thought.

"Your brother?"

"That's so awesome! I have a brother! Wait, I knew I had a brother. Silly Canada." He moved to slap the Canadian hard on the back in a gesture of brotherly banter which sent Canada flying. Sometimes it was easier to be invisible…

"Enough!" Exclaimed Germany, thumping his fist on the table in exasperation. "When you have all quite finished?" He spoke threatening, sending an icy glare to the nations spread around the table who quietened down and resumed their seats, "Now, England. Have you seen Italy at all?" He turned to the Englishman.

England raised a large eyebrow, his smirk widening expressively. "Italy? Why, yes I have seen him as a matter of fact."

"You have?! Where is he? Is he safe? Is he well? Has he had enough pasta?" The German stood up emphatically, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him.

"You ask where he is and I say, he is right there." England pointed to the door in front of him and sat back with folded arms and a large grin on his lips.

With that the double doors swung open with a loud bang, slamming against the walls either side of the door frame and in strode Italy, but not as Germany knew him.

Italy was wearing skin-tight black, leather trousers that sucked in his already tiny legs and waist and showed off his arse exceptionally well. On his torso, was a plain, black tank top with a few black tassels dangling down over his shoulders. Although only one shoulder could be seen as he wore a thick, leather jacket off that shoulder. The jacket was covered with silver studs and his sleeves were rolled up. On his feet were a pair of black Doc Martins that came up halfway up his calf muscles and were laced with black ribbon. The Italian was wearing a silver ring with a skull engraving on it; a black, leather bracelet with a small, silver cross dangling from it and a good half a dozen piercings for ears, tongue and nose. His dainty hands were covered by small, fingerless, leather gloves.

The changes were not just limited to Italy's dress sense. Normally the Italian had brunette had silky hair with a single unruly curl bouncing up from it. Now, Italy had night-black hair, spiked into every direction in the manner of a mohawk that had been in a washing machine. Italy was wearing night black nail varnish on all his long nails. Furthermore, the Italian's eyes were caked with black eyeliner and black eyeshadow so he looked like his eyes were surrounded by vivid dark circles. A small, wireless headphone could be seen in his right ear and the faint, tinny sound of death metal could be heard to ooze from the earbud.

But the most surprising change could be seen clearly on the Italian's right forearm. Marked in vivid black ink and still a little red from its recent application, was a tattoo. Swirling in a myriad of whorls was a bowel of pasta. The spaghetti pasta seemed to run up his arm in a rounded shape, with a couple of stray tomatoes in the centre that could have been eyes, and a stray mushroom that could have been a nose. Nobody could deny the resemblance that the pasta tattoo had to Germany. After all, if Italy was going to get a tattoo, then tattooing Germany's face made out of pasta was the only real option.

The thunk, thunk, thunk of Italy's heavy, new boots echoed around the room as he strode over to his chair. He sat down with a crash and swung one, then the second leg onto the table, one resting over the other at the ankles. He bought his hands up to interlace his fingers and rested them lightly behind his neck before swinging back on his chair. After a moment of silence, Italy looked around the room before announcing in a loud voice:

"Ve-ve, Motherfuckers."

 **A/N: I don't own Hetalia or the song Back in Black, or Doc Martins. I have literally been wanting to write Italy's entrance to the conference since I started this story. Thanks for reading, reviewing and following my story.**


	10. The Nations React

Chapter Ten – The Nations React

"Ve-ve, Motherfuckers."

To say that the other nations were surprised would perhaps be considered the understatement of the century. Excluding England, the assembled personifications ranged in emotions from shock, to confusion, to utter disbelief.

America was definitely erring on the side of complete confusion. The self-proclaimed hero had no clue what was going on and failed to see the consequences of Italy's grand entrance. Thoughtfully, the American pondered whether Italy had finally found the book _Reading the Mood,_ thereby completing their sacred quest. He was far too hungry for these kinds of brain teasers and settled on handling the situation the best way he knew how to – by tugging a milkshake and a hamburger out of his briefcase and tucking in. The slurps and munching noises echoed around the quiet room.

Russia was also in the confused category, although definitely on the more pleasant side of the confused category. Having long ago established that Italy was a country of excellent fashion taste, Russia incorrectly interpreted the events as the latest trends in Rome and Venice. He wondered whether he ought to follow the Italian's new trends. The spunk in the Italian's attitude was harder for the Russian to compute. Russia furrowed his brows in deep thought, letting out little "hm" noises of contemplation. After a good minute, the evidence clicked into place. Of course! How could Russia have been so stupid? Clearly, the Italian was desperate to become one with Mother Russia and was resorting to unusual measures to try and impress him. Russia could not help the blush that spread over his pale features. All of this was for him? How sweet! He clasped his hands together in pure joy. Italy would be a great new friend for him. If only his little Baltics could go to such lengths to please him.

In all China's long years, he had never seen anything that had surprised him as much as Italy's entrance. Quietly, he wondered if he had actually passed on and was now in some room in Hell awaiting an eternity of (apparently) evil Italy, Germany's shouting and Japan being indifferent. It had been a good life, he supposed. Although it was just a shame he had not gone to buy that latest _Hello Kitty_ cushion. He wondered if Hell even had _Hello Kitty._ If not, would it be worth trying to get into Heaven? It was then that realisation dawned on the Chinese man – he was still back in the conference room and this was actually happening. He needed to spend less time studying Western after-death philosophy and more time buying _Hello Kitty._ A slow smile came over his features and he nodded to himself, clearly Italy turning into a Punk was the poke he needed to get his priorities straight. Under the table he began to search eBay for limited edition _Hello Kitty_ cushions and slowly spent his country's national budget for the arts and sciences on some excellent _Hello Kitty_ purchases.

Although Japan kept his incredibly neutral façade, the nation was very shocked. All this time and Hungary was right! Italy and Germany were obviously a couple! Why else would the Italian go to such lengths to dress in tight, leather trousers after an argument with Germany? There was no other logical explanation! I mean the German's tastes practically screamed kinky and even Italy was bright enough to work that out. Japan was barely conscious of his hand reaching for his camera phone and snapping some excellent shots of the Italian in his new style. It was only when he tasted blood on his lip did he realise he had had a nosebleed. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket he quickly held it up to his nose with one hand, whilst texting Hungary frantically with the other. Ah…his manga art would be inspired for years with this development.

Canada sipped his cup of coffee. Out of everyone in the room he was probably the least surprised and confused (the exceptions being England and Italy of course). The Canadian had figured out that Germany had upset Italy (the Italian would never leave Germany's side for any other reason). England and Italy were obviously together because of their simultaneous disappearance and lack of communication with the rest of the nations. England was still bitter towards Germany for goodness knows what excuse – the man could hold a grudge for centuries! It did not take a genius to figure out that England was going to encourage Italy to have a little revenge. Unfortunately, the collective brain cells of the rest of the nations in the room was below the brain cells contained in the average donkey. That, combined with Canada's invisibility powers meant that the chances of them finding out what England and Italy were up to were non-existent. Still, the manner of their revenge had taken the Canadian by surprise. Somehow, Canada was disappointed that Italy had not decided to make pancakes as his revenge. He took another sip of his coffee and settled back comfortably in his chair. He might as well make the most of the entertainment.

Big Brother France was very proud of his Little Brother Italy. Finally, the little Italian was all grown up and making his own way in the world. Still, France was not entirely convinced about the manner of Italy's maturity. France had always seen Italy as taking after himself – cowardly, fashionable and good looking. The Frenchman had even decided to teach little Italy how to profit from the side-lines like a good big brother. He supposed he could work with this new development, although he definitely needed to do something about the hair. France had not seen someone with hair like that since England's punk phase…ah…England. Of course. The Frenchman tilted his head to set his blue-eyed gaze on the Englishman. Someone who one would expect to be overreacting completely, was calmly sitting with his legs crossed, sipping a cup of tea. France had no idea where he had got his tea from. The only time France actually believed in England's magic was when cups of tea seemed to magically appear as if from thin air. France narrowed his eyes at England and then looked between Italy and England. Yes, he could definitely see the Englishman's handiwork now he had made the connection. France was even sure he recognised one or two of Italy's earrings as England's. He would have to have a little talk with England later – after all, little Italy only had one Big Brother – and he did not share power! Or something like that anyway…

Germany was perhaps the very definition of the word gormless. In fact, later accounts of the events in that room would add in the tale of Germany travelling all the way to New Zealand to reclaim his gorm. Of course, the tale was nonsense, but it did highlight the fact that Germany did not stop gaping for hours. Disbelief was the German's main reaction, but other than that he did not know what to feel. He was definitely in the region of confused. Possibly angry? Or was that just innate German anger? It was hard to tell. Shell-shocked perhaps? He felt a little of the blood drain out of his face and wondered if he would faint. The only thing the German knew for certain was that he needed a beer. Or two. Or forty-seven…

 _-Hetalia-_

In the air vent above the conference room sat three figures. Spain and Prussia had resumed their position of the previous day, hoping to up their pranking game. They had been surprised to find that somebody had already beet them to their favourite spot. Romano was sitting there with a selection of snacks and a small camera on a tripod pointed down at the conference room. He glowered as the two nations crawled over to him.

"What are you two bastards doing here?"

"Romano! My little tomato! I didn't expect to see you here? You look well. Would you like some churros?" Spain practically purred at the presence of his favourite Southern Italian.

"Go away you jerk." He grumbled, but took the churros that Spain offered him and started to munch, the food sating his mood marginally.

"What's with the camera? Were you hoping to film my awesomeness?" Prussia interjected.

"You'll see. But sit tight and don't make a sound, bastards."

Intrigued, the two had done as instructed. They quietly sat and watched the scene unfold. It was only when Italy came into the room that the penny dropped for Spain.

"I forgot about that!" Spain announced quietly. The Spaniard would certainly have to travel further than New Zealand to reclaim his gorm.

Prussia was gawping down at the scene. Slowly his brain kicked into gear and he nodded thoughtfully. Italy wanted to compete with him in terms of pranks! This was a serious step up for sure. But Prussia was not to be beaten that easily. Still, part of the joy of Italy's prank was the fact that it was so unusual for Italy to do anything that might upset Germany. Italy was also a huge coward and would probably fall asleep halfway through any prank that took longer than five minutes to prepare. Italy was laying down the gauntlet for sure. Prussia wondered if Italy had had help to prepare such a committed prank. Romano certainly had had a hand in it, but Romano was not much braver than his brother. He frowned thoughtfully. The only other person to be missing from the conference was that stuffy Englishman. Prussia was sure that England would never do something like that, despite the nation's occasional rebellious streak. Could it have been someone outside the conference? Spain seemed to know about it, but seemed to have forgotten and was with Prussia most of the time anyway. Whoever, it was, Prussia was going to have to up his prank game to let Italy and his patron know who was the King of Pranks.

"Prank of the year award goes to your brother Romano. I'll be sure to get it framed." He said with quiet sarcasm, his eyes glinting with mischief as he expanded his pranking schemes.

Meanwhile, Romano was trying to hold back his laughter at the expressions of the different nations. He kept the camera steady, panning through to the different reactions. America turning to food. Russia smiling inanely. China going to his phone to look up goodness knows what. Japan's nose bleed. The chair drinking coffee? France glaring at England (nothing unusual there). And Germany…the Potato Bastard looked like he was going to set his jaw into an open position for eternity. Romano could not help but allow a small smile to light up his features and he reminded himself to thank England personally at a later date.

 **A/N: I don't own Hetalia, Lord of the Rings or Hello Kitty. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter.**


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